


The Study

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock and their difficult relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Study

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Holmescest fic, but nothing explicit at all, just implied. However, if that squicks you then this one is probably not for you. Cross-posted at LJ.

"Do you love him?"

He was answered with silence. Petulant silence, if such a thing were possible.

They weren't facing each other. Each seated on opposite ends of the sofa, facing the fire. Mummy had insisted they both settle there. Wouldn't want anyone to catch a chill. She was off supervising the staff, of course. She was a master conductor of the Holmesian orchestra.

"It's a simple enough question, Sherlock."

"I didn't say I don't know the answer, Mycroft. I just don't want to tell you the answer."

"Ahh." As if that reply had been an exact response to his question. "He is a good man. Good for you, too, I believe? You have been lucky, I think, in the finding of him."

"Yes."

"Of course, it's the keeping that's the problem, isn't it?"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"I'm simply pointing out that you don't have the best... track record, shall we say. Not that that's entirely your fault, I suppose."

"You think not?" Incredulous venom burning in his tone. "I mean it, I'm not having this conversation with you. We are not doing this."

"Doing what exactly? I'm merely chatting with my brother in our family home about his newest love interest."

"DULL. BORING." Trying to inject his normal disdain into those words. Failing.

"Oh, I don't think it's boring at all, Sherlock. And neither do you."

How Sherlock wanted to leave. Leave this room, leave this house, leave this ma-. Just leave.

"I'll just leave then, shall I? I don't mind being the difficult one. It's _de rigueur _by now," he spat as he made to rise from the sofa.__

"Don't be so dramatic, for God's sake. You're not going anywhere. Neither am I for that matter. We both know we're stuck here. For better or for worse, hmmm?" With that smile that wasn't a smile. Was a shark's smile. But Sherlock sat back down. Slumped a little further into the corner of the sofa. They both managed to sit there quietly for awhile. Stare at the fire, pretend the other wasn't there. Pretend they were anywhere but in this house, this room.

"I do."

"You do what, Sherlock?"

"I do love him."

Mycroft blinked a few times, went very, very still. His breathing became very shallow as he tried not to grit his teeth, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat.

"Well, that's good then," he managed after a moment. Not even his shark's smile. Just blankness. "It's good to love. Good that you love someone e-. Well, it's good that you love someone, Sherlock."

"You may as well finish that sentence."

"I did. I just finished it."

"No you didn't. I'll even make it easier for you. I love him. I love him just as much as you love her," he said with a nod at the ring on Mycroft's finger. "So finish the sentence, Mycroft." His voice was rising. He never could control himself, damn him. Really always was the difficult one.

"Fine, fine then." Anger seeping into his own voice. "It's good to love, Sherlock. It's good to love someone ELSE. How's that? Are you pleased with yourself now?"

They both turned away from each other, facing opposite directions. Emotion pushing their breath too fast. Heat from the fire bringing color to their normally pale faces.

Mummy chose this moment to breeze into the study. "I swear these temporary girls they send up are just hopeless sometimes. But your father simply balks at keeping a full staff anymore. Thinks it's a waste of money. Of course, he doesn't actually have to deal with these people."

She settled into a wing-backed chair near the sofa, turned her piercing gaze towards her two sons. "You've already been fighting. Honestly, one would think the two of you would have grown out of this by now. It's beyond ridiculous at this point."

The two mumbled, "Yes, Mummy," in practiced unison. Then they all sat in silence, all brooding for their own reasons, till the clock began chiming six.

"Well, I suppose we should head upstairs. People will begin arriving in an hour or so," Mrs. Holmes reminded them as she rose from her seat.

The men stood as she wafted out of the room. They watched her go, then finally turned to one another.

"I'm not, you know. I'm not pleased. I'm not pleased with myself. I'm not pleased with anyth-." Deep breath. "Just, I'm not. I never am."

"Oh, Sherlock," he sighed. "Neither am I. But Mummy's right. We should have outgrown this by now. It can't go on."

"I know. I know that, Mycroft," he said with a soft resignation that the other man had never heard from him before.

"After you then, Brother," gesturing towards the door with a bit of a bow.

Sherlock took a breath as if to say something else, but thought better of it. He turned on his heel and headed out the door without looking back.

And Mycroft was proud of him for that. Proud of what it took not to look back, to put this...whatever it was...behind him. He was proud and more than a bit jealous. And as he walked through that door in his brother's wake, he knew a little piece of his heart, their hearts, was being left behind in that room. He would never set foot in there again.


End file.
